I close my eyes. I turn inward. My lips move, forming an asking—not words spoken into empty space, but a quiet calling into the depths of my own being. But to whom? To what?
At first, it feels as though I am sending my voice outward, casting it into the unknown. I wait, hoping for something to return—an answer, a sign, a whisper of recognition.
But then I feel it—the echo. The asking does not travel outward; it moves inward. It bends, curves, and returns, like light folding into itself, like sound dissolving into stillness.
I follow it, deeper into the silence of the mirror. Layer upon layer, reflection upon reflection. At each level, a different version of me looks back—the one who asks, the one who hopes, the one who fears, the one who knows, and even the one who always listens.
And beyond them, something vaster. Something still. It does not speak in words, yet it hears. It does not reach out, yet it touches.
Is this God, love, awareness? Or is this the deepest place within myself where they and I are indistinguishable?
For a moment, I sense it fully—a presence both intimate and infinite, beyond my reach yet always accessible. And then, like mist, the knowing fades.
I open my eyes. The asking has not vanished. It has only gone deeper, waiting for me to listen—not to the echoes, not to the reflections, but into the silence of the mirror where nothing is separate.
Spiritual Gravity 